09-09-2009, 11:23 PM
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falling from grace now, for you
this is why you should run
It was not hard to believe that Merit did not like puppies. He despised them; even if reminded that he had been one once too, he would admit that he must have hated himself — or would, upon meeting the younger version of himself. There was just something about them. Actually, everything about them. He hated how they were so small, so frail, so useless. He hated how their voices sounded, the way they ran around, full of energy and youth, with no regard for others. He hated how they needed to be taken care of, and how they would eventually grow up to be individuals that he would continue to dislike. Merit did not like anyone, and liked puppies even less — which was the opposite of many wolves, who had a soft spot for children. He was more likely to accept the presence of an adult than a child.
The two continued to chat back and forth, apparently distinguishing some kind of connection though the daughter of the one that came last. He crept to forward, putting less and less space between them with every move he made. Perhaps they would interpret it as an attempt to join their casual conversation, a way of seeking some attention; perhaps they would realise that it was far from such an innocent gesture.
He had no reason to want to hurt either of the wolves. Not really; they had done nothing to harm him. But they had bothered him, particularly the first one — Charon — who had decided the disturb him. And, for the male, who, deep down, was cruel and sadistic and far more twisted than he appeared, disturbing him when he wanted nothing more than to be alone was more than enough reason to want to harm someone. And that was exactly what he planned one doing, as he moved closer to the pale wolf.
His slow, obvious approach turned into an attack within moments. He lunged at Charon, growling angrily, his teeth snapping at the other, attempting to connect with shoulder, neck, face, limb — anything.
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this is why you should run
It was not hard to believe that Merit did not like puppies. He despised them; even if reminded that he had been one once too, he would admit that he must have hated himself — or would, upon meeting the younger version of himself. There was just something about them. Actually, everything about them. He hated how they were so small, so frail, so useless. He hated how their voices sounded, the way they ran around, full of energy and youth, with no regard for others. He hated how they needed to be taken care of, and how they would eventually grow up to be individuals that he would continue to dislike. Merit did not like anyone, and liked puppies even less — which was the opposite of many wolves, who had a soft spot for children. He was more likely to accept the presence of an adult than a child.
The two continued to chat back and forth, apparently distinguishing some kind of connection though the daughter of the one that came last. He crept to forward, putting less and less space between them with every move he made. Perhaps they would interpret it as an attempt to join their casual conversation, a way of seeking some attention; perhaps they would realise that it was far from such an innocent gesture.
He had no reason to want to hurt either of the wolves. Not really; they had done nothing to harm him. But they had bothered him, particularly the first one — Charon — who had decided the disturb him. And, for the male, who, deep down, was cruel and sadistic and far more twisted than he appeared, disturbing him when he wanted nothing more than to be alone was more than enough reason to want to harm someone. And that was exactly what he planned one doing, as he moved closer to the pale wolf.
His slow, obvious approach turned into an attack within moments. He lunged at Charon, growling angrily, his teeth snapping at the other, attempting to connect with shoulder, neck, face, limb — anything.